A Day in the Life of Mon Mothma
by AllHailTheGeek
Summary: Life isn't easy when you're the leader of the Rebel Alliance. From military breakfast to prank wars, from X-wing malfunctions to embargoes on tea, Mon Mothma has to deal with everything- yes, even the kitchen sink.
1. 0549 standard hours

_0549 standard hours_

"Uh...Milady?...Milady?...Milady, wake up!"

Two years of leading the Rebel Alliance have taught me that when someone tells you to wake up, you wake up. Even if you don't know who it is or what they're waking you up for. Instantly I am sitting up in bed, bleariness rapidly receding from my vision to reveal a mortified-looking rookie pilot standing in the doorway. "What is it?" I snap, as I have just caught sight of the chrono on my tiny nightstand. I generally wake at 0600 standard; it is now 0549. Common sense with regards to waking up or no, this naïve youngster had better have a good reason for the intrusion.

"Um, milady, Senator, ma'am, General Dodonna would like to, um, have a word with you in the, um, hangar bay. He says there's, um, been a situation. Milady." The invader, young and clearly nervous, gives his explanation in a stuttering rush, then practically flees the suite as if Vader himself was on his tail. Oh, dear. Am I really all that scary? Then I snag a glimpse of myself in the small wall-mounted mirror, in all my nightdress-bedecked, bedheaded glory, and decide that yes, I really am all that scary at 0549 in the morning when I have not been expecting visitors. I leave Dodonna a message saying I'll be there shortly (on the voice-only com, as I definitely don't want anyone else seeing me in this state), and select one of my usual white dresses from the tiny closet.

Five minutes later, I am looking an iota less scary as I stride down the corridors of the Yavin IV base. The humidity will no doubt do mysterious things to my hair by the time afternoon rolls around, but I rest assured in the knowledge that my short auburn tresses are lying flat and orderly, at least for now. As I walk, I comm Dodonna; he picks up immediately. "Dodonna here, state your purpose," he says, in accordance with protocol, a protocol rendered completely unnecessary in this instance by the fact that he will have recognized the ID number of my private comlink. He knows exactly who's calling, so I launch into my speech without preamble. "General, I would rather _you_ state _your_ purpose for rousing me at this hour. Your messenger mentioned the hangar bay; I'm going there now. What was this situation you wanted to see me about?"

He is silent for a moment or two before responding, a pause which strikes me as being distinctly awkward. "Ah...Senator...well, you know how some of the pilots talk, how a 'situation' is code for a problem of rather colossal proportions…?" I get a familiar sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and he goes on, "Well, suffice it to say, I think at this juncture you'd have to...to see it to believe it." This, and the unspoken implication that the General, forward-thinking as ever, would rather not send the whole base into a panic should anyone overhear our conversation. I silently indulge in a few well-placed curse words in a couple different languages, most of which Obi-Wan taught me completely by accident. One can learn a lot by listening to a Jedi Master who's been up far too late. _Oh, not good,_ as he would say. Not good at all. As I sweep through the halls toward the hangar, I become vaguely aware that I am meeting far less resistance than usual from various Rebels who wish to talk to me about this, that, and the other. This time, looking scary doesn't bother me quite so much. I am, in fact, grateful for the extra speed. And for my common sense with regards to waking up. Whatever 'situation' Dodonna is going on about, it surely cannot be anything short of catastrophic!

My suspicions are confirmed as the hangar doors slide open, and my eyes and ears are immediately assaulted by utter chaos. I seem to be the only person – indeed, the only _thing_ of any sort – that is not burning, running around aimlessly, soaked in flamm retardant, or covered from head to toe in...paint. Yes, paint. Gallons upon gallons of the stuff splatter the walls, the floor, the fiery shell of a crashed transport freighter taking up most of the center of the room. Not to mention General Dodonna, who is marching toward me with as much dignity as he can muster while the entire right side of his body is covered in grayish-blue paint and he is tracking yellow all over the room, having inadvertently stepped in a puddle at some point. "Senator, I–" he begins, but I cut him off. "What, pray tell, General, is the meaning of this?! How did this happen, why did that freighter crash, and why have you not gotten it under control?"

"Well, you see, Senator–"

"No, I most definitely _do not_ see. Where are the hangar personnel? Did no one think to requisition extra flamm retardant from the supply stores in order to put out that crash site? And how come there are also, in case you hadn't noticed, _pilots throwing paint at each other all over the place?!"_

"Senator, that is exactly why I needed your help!" Dodonna cries, in obvious consternation. "I would have run to the control room long ago and issued directives over the intercom, but someone seems to have fooled with a computer terminal and jammed the intercom for this hangar. It's a bug, Senator, an admirable bit of slicing especially if it's from one of our own, but what I mean to say is I can think of no way to get around it save your override codes. At least, no Rebel would dare slice our systems in a way that even your codes couldn't crack. With all due respect, they probably couldn't– those codes are seriously powerful, you know."

I gesture at the surrounding pandemonium as we too begin to walk in no specific direction, a not-altogether-pleasant thought having materialized in my head. "At least, these scoundrels could not. And if there were an Imperial spy here, they would not deign to wreak havoc so localized as this if they were capable of effecting more damage to the facility, as I believe anyone who can produce a bug of your description would be. However, I am concerned that...are there any Special Operations agents participatory in this...ah...battle?" For I have realized a certain pattern hidden within the seemingly random volleys of paint: Blue Squadron is fighting Red Squadron, and needless to say, they are doing it with a vengeance.

My question catches Dodonna off guard. "Uh...yes, I think. Two or three of them. Why do you ask?"

"Would they be codenamed Wisp, Nexu, and Fulcrum, by any chance?"

"Yes, now you mention it! I don't see any of them at the moment, though; how did you know?"

"You don't see Wisp because she's one of our sneakiest operatives, and you don't see Nexu because he's probably covered in paint beyond all recognition, but as for Fulcrum...I am fairly sure you don't see her because _she's tailing us right now."_

This third surprise is enough to make the august General actually stop in his tracks. "What – how – is she really?!" he splutters, if spluttering is the correct word for when a being's normally smooth speech is rendered halting by utter shock without actually going so far as to choke on saliva. "I mean – if an operative like that – how do you know she's tailing us?"

"That, I'm afraid, is _classified._ " And it is, because what has tipped me off to Fulcrum's presence is not any lapse in stealth, but merely the paradoxical fact that my dress alone has remained pristinely unsoiled throughout the whole exchange, clean white in the maelstrom of flying color. Droplets of paint can only defy the laws of physics for so long before the object which they so deftly swerve to avoid begins to notice. I have no doubt about who is invisibly shielding me from said colorful projectiles, because I would have been the first person she'd tell if anyone else like her were to come to Yavin IV. And she'd know, too, if they did. Force-sensitives are like that.

" _Jah krohoi tai!"_ I hear a Togruti curse from above, and then Fulcrum is crouching in front of us, having dropped from her hiding place somewhere in the vicinity of the ceiling. She straightens up and offers a salute for Dodonna and a small bow for me, all the while looking rather put out at her discovery. "General. Milady. Astute of you to notice my...ah...intervention, I must say. Don't worry, milady, I've been careful not to let my shields slip an inch. Vader, at least, shall remain in the dark about this whole mess."

Dodonna is still looking entirely nonplussed. "Senator, do you know what in stars' name she's talking about?"

"Yes, but as I told you already, it's classified." I beckon to Fulcrum to join us as we walk off again. Just because I flushed her out of hiding doesn't mean I don't want her help with keeping clean. "So, Fulcrum," I ask casually, changing the subject, "would you care to tell us how the intercom in this hangar became unworkable except by those possessing certain high-level access codes? Not to mention how one of your...peculiar history...came to look as though she had been caught in the crossfire of a heated paintball debate?"

Fulcrum flushes, her white facial markings exactly matching the shade of delicate pink that has formed on her left montral where splotches of red and white paint have run together. She gulps audibly before responding in a sheepish tone one rarely hears her use, "This is going to be exactly like what happened after my prank war with Wes Janson, isn't it, milady?"

"So help me, _yes._ Now get your bug out of that system before I march over to the nearest terminal and do it myself, complete with a couple of privilege removals for a certain fun-loving slicer!"

I could swear I see a reflexive 'yes, Master' die on her tongue before she scurries off to right whatever damage she did to the intercom firmware. A Padawan's instincts indeed. Being Skywalker's apprentice, even for such a short span of years, must have drilled them into her. By the time I have led Dodonna, who has lapsed into bemused silence, back to the doors and the computer terminal there, the intercom is up and working again, as evidenced by the fact that I can open a channel to the whole hangar without incident. I must admit, Fulcrum's slicing skills are impressive, if occasionally ill-placed. In the sternest and most commanding voice I can muster, I state into the wall-mounted microphone, _"Attention all pilots and other personnel! This is Senator Mon Mothma, leader of the Alliance, and I demand that you effect an immediate ceasefire!"_

This does the trick. The room falls instantly silent, save for the crackling of flames and the echoes of my announcement. I turn around for a moment to cast a sweeping glare around at the assembled miscreants, then continue, _"Red and Blue Squadrons, report to the supply stores on the double. Fetch cleaning equipment and extra flamm retardant, and then return here with it. Oh, and Commanders Dreis and Altriff plus Agents Wisp, Nexu, and Fulcrum, come see me on your way out. I want this hangar, and all of you, spotless by 1200 today! No slackers! March!"_

This further edict elicits a great kerfuffle of movement as everyone scrambles to obey. A short chat with the two commanders and three SpecOps agents later, I have learned how exactly this whole incident was brought about: the crashed freighter had been old and in need of maintenance, so her repulsors quit just as she was attempting a final approach. All that paint had been her cargo. Some enterprising pilots who'd been called in to fight the fire had found the storage bays largely intact, and began a mock battle, as rather bored young male beings are wont to do. The three agents and the rest of the two squadrons had then joined in, with Fulcrum sneaking off at some point to slice the intercom and again to tail me. It does not take long for the pilots, looking suitably chastised, to return with copious amounts of flamm retardant and cleaning fluid; the cleaning commences immediately, with a vigor lacking in most such operations. Am I still that scary, even while looking halfway presentable? Oh, dear.

Behind me, the good General clears his throat for what must be the third or fourth time– I've been so preoccupied with overseeing the cleanup crew and with my own thoughts that I have completely forgotten about him! "Oh, so sorry, General, what is it?" I query, as he looks distinctly uncomfortable.

He shifts his stance awkwardly; could General Dodonna possibly be feeling _embarrassed?_ "Senator, I...well, I was wondering...could I possibly be dismissed to quarters, in order to...ah...return my appearance to regulation standard?" Noting the fact that the majority of his hair is now grayish-blue from the quantity of paint it has been coated in, I am fully inclined to accede to his request.

"Yes, of course, General. You may go. I shall handle this for as long as it needs handling. Do not forget our meeting with those Lannik officials this afternoon," I state, and he visibly relaxes, exiting the hangar at a speed _just_ within the limits of courtesy. I do not blame him in the least. I sweep my gaze over the hangar for a final time, pleased that everything is running smoothly: the fire is very nearly extinguished, and the paint cleanup is coming along nicely as well. I make a mental note to send in another commanding officer, perhaps Rieekan as I know his schedule is fairly open; I don't fully trust these pilots not to start another battle, this time with flamm retardant and soap suds.

It is not until I am well on my way to the mess hall for my morning cup of caf that I think to add an addendum to the mental note: _In future, High Command would do well to remember that pilots plus paint equals mayhem. Of a colossally messy magnitude._

 **A/N: And of course, in a story classified as belonging to the Humor genre, that "morning cup of caf" often leads to trouble… ;) No promises about when the next chapter will be up, but the Muse has been singing unusually loudly with this story, so you never know- could be as soon as tomorrow! Reviews are, as always, much appreciated!**


	2. 0618 standard hours

_0618 standard hours_

The mess hall is unusually empty as I enter, provoking a flutter of movement from the few assorted people as they stand and salute, with no small degree of grogginess. I would usually favor them with an "at ease," but I am just a little too cranky this morning; the early wake-up call and hangar bay catastrophe did nothing to improve my temper. I say nothing, instead waving them angrily back into their seats with a rather gauche arm motion. Stars, but I need my caf! Admiral Ackbar has noticed the discrepancy, offering to let me cut him in the already-short line. I am too out of sorts to be surprised by the fact that he's actually drinking caf, a change from his usual preference of tea or salty _chaaliyas_ broth from his homeworld– it's one of the few creature comforts he insists on. He must have heard about my bad mood. Word certainly travels fast around this base. With a nod of gratitude to him, I place my cup under the caf dispenser.

"Senator! If you have a moment, please!"

General Rieekan is sprinting towards me, still wearing a communications headset. I turn around to face him, wondering what could have gotten him into such a tizzy. Apparently he takes this as acknowledgement; he continues, "I've just got a call from Captain Selesse on the cruiser _Mon Lematra_ – he's been in a battle and barely escaped, got some twenty-odd soldiers needing a real medbay ASAP, and his fuel's running low too, only he can't land because the only berth big enough is covered in pilots duking it out with flamm retardant! Would you happen to know anything about–"

"Yes, thank you, General, I know all about that, since they were just doing the same thing with paint ten minutes ago! You can go sort it out, since I trust Agent Fulcrum hasn't disabled the intercom again; tell them from me to stop it at once and get out of the way. I've been down there far too recently for them to disregard my orders!"

"Thank you, Senator, I'll go– wait, did you say paint? And disabled the intercom? Is that even possible?!"

"Yes, I said paint. And in case you hadn't noticed, Agent Fulcrum is a capable slicer, so yes, it's possible. Now go, please. I'm sorry, but I desperately need my caf."

"Of course, Senator." Rieekan turns smartly on his heel and runs off again, trailing a loose wire from his headset.

I sigh and turn back to the caf machine. Pilots. And no doubt Fulcrum and company have joined the fray too. Thinking about the rashness inherent in all young beings (and some older ones too), I go to press the button on the dispenser– and stop in my tracks, because my comlink is buzzing in my pocket. What can it be now?! Ackbar is regretting his decision to let me ahead of him, I can tell. Muttering a quick apology and an even quicker curse, I pull out the 'link and check who's calling: it's an ensign at the high-security comm suite, probably having just relieved Rieekan. And as far as I know, only a very few people have the comm codes for the most highly secured (not to mention illegal) base in the galaxy, so whoever it is, they're important. Stang. I have to take this call.

At my direction, the ensign puts the caller through; though his voice is garbled and his face hidden by a hooded cloak, just in case the call were to be intercepted, I can tell it's Bail. By this point I recognize his distorted voice just as well as his real one. He starts without pleasantries, which is how I can tell his news is urgent. "Mon, I don't have much time- I'm on Devaron under a false identity which is about to be blown. You were right, there's a slight resistance movement going on in the capital, mostly due to the sizable Twi'lek community on the west end of the city. What's important is that there's a Twi'lek and a couple sympathetic Devaronians among the higher-ups in a huge ship maintenance chain based out of Devaron, and they might be able to get us some mechanics and supplies if we can find them a safe place to meet with Rebel leaders. The Twi'lek – he's my direct contact – gave me a one-use comm number. I'll tell you when I get back. Too risky here. I have reason to believe I'm being tailed. They don't know who I am yet, but I'll just have to hope the disguise holds up if I'm forced to open aggressive negotiations. Speaking of negotiations, how are things with the Lanniks?"

"Haven't met with them yet. It's scheduled for this afternoon, local time. That's great news regarding Devaron; sounds like you've done all you can there. Do you know what ship you'll be returning in?"

"No. Could be the _Pride_ , could be one of yours, could be an unmarked freighter. I'm winging it at this point. I can't wait to see the girls again! They'll be a little mad at me for the sheer number of close shaves on this mission, but I think–"

By _Pride_ he means the _Pride of Alderaan_ , his personal yacht. And by "the girls," of course, he means Breha and Leia, the former of whom will indeed be less than happy with her husband's apparent recklessness. But the transmission has suddenly gone dead in a very loud burst of sparks and static, which leads me to believe that Bail has just racked up another very close call. Maybe he shot the holocomm unit he was using himself, to obliterate all latent data. Stars, I hope he's alright. Leia might literally kill me if he's not.

That is none of my concern, however, at least until Bail gets back in a couple days. Right now, my concern is caf. Caf, immediately. My finger once again hovers mere millimeters from the button that will fill my cup...

...When a stun blast goes flying so close to my head that the charge makes my hair stand on end!

I whirl around, clutching the hand blaster I carry inside my dress, senses instantly on the alert for further danger– only to find that no further danger exists. The mess hall is, if anything, even emptier than it was when I came in! The only sign that anything at all is going on is an abnormal amount of yelling and footsteps in the hallway. Then more blaster shots ring out, stunners by the sound of them, and all nine Corellian hells break loose. The air is suddenly rife with noises of battle as a squadron of pilots comes barging through the door, stun bolts firing at random, storming into the kitchen with cries of _..."COOKIES"?!_

What in the name of the Force is going on?!

I spin slowly on the spot, wondering how an unusually quiet mess hall can become a confectionary war zone in approximately fifteen seconds. And how it can happen at exactly the right moment to deny me my caf yet again. The mess is now filled with shooting pilots, accidentally stunned pilots, pilots howling victoriously with trays of chocolate chip cookies held high above their heads. The serving droids lie twitching on the floor, circuits fried for the time being by too many stun blasts at once. With an inward growl at the sadistic vagaries of fate, I pull out my blaster and fire twice at the ceiling, real bolts rather than stunners so the sound cuts through the cacophony like a vibroblade through...well, like a vibroblade through cookie dough.

The noise redoubles for a moment as many of the perpetrators attempt to flee with their booty, then dies down as those still here freeze in their tracks. Looking closer, I recognize the insignia of Gold Squadron on several uniforms and helmets. So this is where those absent from the hangar bay debacle got to! I lower my blaster slowly, menacingly, returning it to its secret holster as I give the kitchen raiders what the Princess has termed my "Glare of Icy Death." She herself is headstrong enough that she has been on the receiving end of it a few times. The ne'er-do-wells stand there as if paralyzed, staring at me with a slack-jawed mix of awe and terror. All it takes is a motion of dismissal from me to send them running out on their comrades' heels.

I deem another mental note necessary: _comm a technician to get the service droids back up and running. And comm medbay, because those three unconscious pilots won't be getting_ themselves _off the floor anytime soon._ The hall has returned to its previous state of near inactivity. Which, quite frankly, is the way I like it. The "Glare of Icy Death" seems to have done the trick. I must commend Leia for the name. It fits.

Speaking of said Alderaanian princess, she is the first to enter the mess after the Gold Squadron Cookie Pirates leave. As can be guessed by the way my luck has been going this morning, Leia strides up to me just as I am attempting, for the fourth time, to pour myself a cup of caf. I nearly snap at her, but manage to regain my politician's composure just as she begins to speak...or rather, to rant. Princess Leia is Not Happy, and she wants to make sure I know it. "Senator, did you receive a transmission from my father the Viceroy a few minutes ago? Because I did, and he said he was _being chased_ and didn't even have time to talk to his _daughter_ , and I was told I could find you in here, and do you have any idea where he is or what's happened to him?"

"Patience, Leia. Yes, your father commed me as well. He says he's on Devaron, in a disguise that won't hold much longer, and I doubt–"

"Devaron?! He told me he was going to be on Ryloth with the Twi'lek Resistance!"

"He told me that as well, but apparently someone referred him to Devaron, more specifically a ship maintenance company based there. As I was saying, I doubt his abilities are insufficient to get him out of whatever situation he has landed himself in. Your father has been working surreptitiously against the Empire since its inception; he has plenty of experience, not to mention blaster skills, to remove himself from trouble just as quickly as he finds it."

"That doesn't mean there isn't a chance of...well, the situation being too difficult for him."

There is a surprising amount of acid in Leia's voice. Sure enough, it's that exact possibility that has me worried. "I'm not saying the chance doesn't exist. I'm saying that it's quite remote, and your father is good at keeping it that way."

"Hmph." Leia is not convinced, but she lets the matter rest. "Well, tell me if you get any other word from him. And tell me _immediately_ if he comes back. I don't care if I'm halfway across the galaxy. Just tell me, okay?"

I might say I thought she was scared for him, if it wasn't for the fact that nothing scares Princess Leia. "All right, Princess. If he returns here, you will be the first to know. And if he returns to Alderaan first, you will also be the first to know, since your mother will undoubtedly contact you with the news."

"Good." She scowls just to make sure I get the message, grabs a bland synthetic-egg-and-cheese sandwich from the kitchen countertop, pours herself a mug of Alderaanian blue tea (her favorite) from the other dispenser, and takes her leave.

And while we are talking about dispensers, I have an urgent appointment with the one I have been standing in front of for the past three minutes or so. Caf is first on the agenda. Strong, black caf, because my temper is approaching the boiling point and anything less will not suffice. Finally, I press the button, waiting with almost childish anticipation for the liquid energy to come pouring out into my cup...

I am one of the few beings fortunate enough to have known Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi for a number of years. One of his favorite phrases, besides "I have a bad feeling about this," was "I don't believe in luck," reflecting a Jedi belief that Master Kenobi adopted with gusto. Right at the moment, though, however wise he may be, I am inclined to think that Obi-Wan is wrong on that point. Only luck of the darkest, scummiest, most horrible sort would cause the caf machine to explode in my face at the very moment I go to to use it.

I am spluttering with rage, and pain, and the fact that extremely hot caf has gone splashing straight into my eyes. The mess hall is dead silent, save for the sizzle of the machine's remains. Nobody moves or talks. I find it hard to believe that anyone is breathing. My dress is soiled beyond repair. I am fairly sure I will have burns requiring a medbay visit from the scalding caf all over my face and chest. I am so angry I cannot even choke out an order to have a new caf machine brought from the supply stores, if there even is a new caf machine to be had. As soon as I have wiped enough of the beverage out of my eyes that they won't sting terribly, I open them to reveal a dozen or so faces all staring at me, looking positively petrified. As well they should be! For stars' sake, the _one_ morning I need my caf the most, the machine _blows up!_ All over me! The universe seems hells-bent on keeping me from my caf, even if it has to _destroy_ the machine to do it!

" _Who is responsible for this?!"_ I roar at nobody in particular. _"Who, in the nine hells of Corellia, caused this to happen? I don't care if it was a prank, I don't care if it was negligence on the part of the droids, I just want this cleaned up RIGHT NOW!"_ The silence holds for another unbearably tense moment, then the storm breaks. Everyone is moving and talking and apologizing at once. I simply stand there, breath heaving furiously, fragments of plastoid-foam cup in hand, hot caf still trickling down the front of my dress. So much for Fulcrum's help; this dress will be stained for life, or at least until it gets tossed in the incinerator.

"Senator, I think I have something that could help…" The wet-sounding voice from behind me is unmistakably Ackbar's. I turn around to face him, intending to apologize profusely for taking such a long time and also for my disheveled appearance. But instead of a disapproving Admiral, I see a smiling Mon Cal savior taking pity on his supremely frazzled friend, because what he is holding out for me to take is the very thing I need most right now.

Ackbar is handing me a whole, undamaged, steaming cup of caf.

 **A/N: Sorry about the long wait! I *might* be able to get up one chapter a weekend, on any story, for the time being. School is impending, so my time to write will be significantly reduced starting next week. I don't intend to become one of those authors who hasn't updated in two or three years, but don't expect frequent updates either. Again, I'm sorry, but real life calls!**

 **Oh, and by the way, "plastoid-foam" = Styrofoam. And flamm retardant = the stuff you find inside a fire extinguisher.**


End file.
